Put Asunder
by Steve Shives
Summary: “Who is she?” Robin asked, looking down at her. If not for the birthdate written on the tag, he might have taken her for someone his own age. He tugged the sheet out of Batman’s hand and laid it back over her face. “Who was she?”


BATMAN:  
Put Asunder  
Written by Steve Shives

The tag on the woman's toe read "Amanda Hanshaw." Batman pulled back the sheet that covered her pale, blonde-haired head. How young she had been—twenty-six according to the tag, but still with the round, chubby-cheeked face of a little girl.

"Who is she?" Robin asked, looking down at her. If not for the birthdate written on the tag, he might have taken her for someone his own age. He tugged the sheet out of Batman's hand and laid it back over her face. "Who _was_ she?"

"A mistress of Luka Spinelli's." Batman pushed the aluminum shelf back into the freezer, shut and locked the door. He nudged Robin toward the window.

When the night watchman entered the morgue some few seconds later, he found it as he'd expected—dark, cold, and but for the humming of the freezer, perfectly silent.

. . .

Maggie Lethem threw back the dead-bolt, unhooked the chain, and opened her front door. The man on the other side held up a badge. "Mrs. Lethem?"

"Yes."

"My name's Marcus Driver. I'm a detective." He slipped his badge into his inside coat pocket. "Is your daughter at home?"

Maggie stepped aside and motioned for Detective Driver to come in. She pointed him to the small bedroom at the rear of the apartment, where he found Dina Spinelli unpacking one of the cardboard boxes stacked on her bed. Driver knocked lightly on the door frame. "Mrs. Spinelli, can we talk?"

Dina looked up briefly from her unpacking. "Who are you?"

Driver took a few tentative steps into the bedroom. "Your mother let me in. I'm Marcus Driver, a detective with the Gotham P.D. Can I talk to you for a few minutes?"

"As long as you don't keep calling me 'Mrs. Spinelli' you can," Dina said. She unwrapped a sheet of newspaper from around a picture frame, and placed the frame delicately on the bedside table.

"If I said the name Amanda Hanshaw to you, would you know who I was talking about?"

Dina looked up, eyes narrowed. "Nope," she said after a second, and returned her attention to the open box. "What did she do?"

"She got murdered," Driver said. "Before that, she was a friend of your husband's." Dina turned from the box to shoot him a glare. "_Ex_-husband," Driver corrected.

"Was it Luka that killed her?"

"I'm still working on that," said Driver. "I was hoping you could help me out."

Dina unwrapped another picture frame. "Well, I'm not sure what you think I can do." She looked around for a place for it, but couldn't find one to her liking. She tossed the picture aside on the bed and dug into the box for more. "I never knew where Luka was most of the time when we were married; I sure as hell can't tell you which door to kick-in now."

Driver chuckled. He took a few steps closer to the bed and reached out for the picture. "May I?"

"What?" Dina looked up from the box. "Oh. Sure, go ahead."

The photograph in the frame was of two young boys, one looking a few years older than the other, smiling big smiles. Kneeling between them, an arm around each, smiling just as big, was Dina, looking a few years younger and a great deal happier.

"My boys," Dina explained. "The big one's Elijah. He's ten now. And C.J., he's eight."

"He looks about three in this," Driver said, studying the picture.

"Yeah. That was awhile ago."

Driver placed the photograph back on the bed. "I'm sorry about the custody situation, Dina," he said. "I know it must be rough for you. Everyone at my office thinks you got the shaft."

Dina folded in the flaps of the empty box and moved it onto the floor. "Yeah, well that seems to be a pretty popular opinion." She pulled one of the other boxes closer to her and tore the tape off the top. "Too bad Judge Bartell had a different one."

"The judge's sins will find him out," Driver said. "It's just a matter of time."

"Sure would be nice for his sins to find him out in time for Elijah's birthday next month." She removed a manila envelope from the box and opened it. "Oh, for Christ's sake, would you look at this?" She pulled a small stack of photographs from the envelope. "He sends back our wedding photos, but takes them outta the frames first," she said, turning the photos so that Driver could see. "Guess the frames were worth keeping."

Driver took them from her outstretched hand. "How old were you here?" he asked, flipping through shots of Dina in her regal white gown, standing next to Luka in his tailored dark blue suit and tie, looking every inch the mobbed-up thug with his broken nose and awkward, insincere smile.

"Nineteen," Dina said. She took back the photos, glanced at the top one of her and Luka briefly, then stuffed them back into the envelope. "At least they're proof that I once owned a dress, anyway."

"Dina," Driver said, coughing into his fist, "we don't close cases by kicking in doors. We do it with investigation, the scientific method. We eliminate possibilities. That's what I was hoping you could help me with."

"What possibilities can I help you eliminate?" she asked, opening another envelope from the box. She peeked at its contents, then stuffed them back in and tossed that envelope aside with the wedding photos. "Birthday party pictures," she said.

"Do you own a gun, Dina?"

She turned from the box to face him. "Do I own a gun? What's that got to do with anything? Is that why you're here?"

"Right now, I'm open to a wide variety of possibilities," Driver said. "It's just a question I have to ask you, nothing more. Do you have a gun in the house?"

"No," Dina said, folding her arms.

"Would you mind if I had a look around, then, just to make sure?"

"Yes, I would mind that, Detective . . . I forget, whatever your name is."

"Marcus Driver."

"Whatever. You want to search my mother's apartment, ask my mother. Something tells me she'll side with me, so I'm afraid you'll need to show us a search warrant if you want to snoop around."

Driver shrugged. "That's fine. If that's the way you want it." He backed out of the bedroom.

"Maybe Judge Bartell can help you out with that," Dina said.

Driver smiled. "Thanks for your time, Dina," he said as he turned to leave.

. . .

Tim Drake took the stone steps two at a time as he ran down into the cave. The car's canopy was open and Batman was about to climb inside. "Hey!" Tim yelled, hitting the cave floor with both feet. He pivoted and ran for the vault. "Wait up! I'm coming!"

Batman paused beside the car. "Did you finish your paper?"

"Yes!" Tim yelled from inside the vault.

"Has Alfred proofread it?"

"I just gave it to him! He said he'd let me know about it when we got back!" Tim came jogging out of the vault clad in most of his Robin costume, his cape, gloves and mask draped in a bundle over one arm. "Let's go."

"What if Alfred isn't satisfied, and you have to rewrite it?" Batman asked.

Tim climbed into the car's passenger seat. "Then I'll work on it tomorrow morning before I leave for school. Or at lunch. It's not due 'til tomorrow afternoon."

Batman made no move toward the car.

"Bruce, come on," said Tim, scooting forward in his seat and throwing his cape around behind him. "I'm done, really. It's a good paper. It's _brilliant_. Alfred's eyes'll roll back in his head. When Mrs. Daniels reads it, it will forever change the way she looks at Cinna the poet."

Tim attached the cape to his tunic beneath the collar. Batman still wasn't moving.

Tim sighed. "_Please._"

He saw Batman grit his teeth. "All right." Batman climbed into the car. The canopy slid shut over their heads. "I'm trusting that you've told me the truth," he said, starting the engine, not looking at Tim.

Tim pulled on his gloves, then made the three-finger salute with his left hand. "Scout's honor."

They clicked their safety harnesses into place, and Batman piloted the car out of the cave and into the mouth of the tunnel.

"Where are we going?" Robin asked, pressing his mask onto his face.

"To verify the status of Sophie Carlini," said Batman.

"Who's she?"

"Another known mistress of Luka Spinelli. She didn't show up to work today."

"How could you possibly know that?" Robin asked. "Are you spying on every woman Spinelli's ever slept with?"

Batman said nothing.

Robin's mask shifted upwards as he raised his eyebrows. "No way . . ."

"She works for a WayneTech executive," Batman finally said.

"Ah." Robin nodded his head. "So, not _every_ woman Spinelli's slept with, just the ones that answer the phone for your corporate lackeys."

Batman didn't respond—not that Robin expected him to.

The car emerged from the tunnel. Batman guided it along the narrow dirt lane that cut through the woods, and turned it onto the main road that led into the city.

"Why all this concern about my grades, anyhow?" Robin asked after several minutes. "Do you have a guilty conscience for all the hooky you played as a teenager?"

"I had private tutors," Batman said.

Robin looked out the window to his right and smirked. "That explains a lot."

Batman and Robin entered the apartment through a living room window. They found Sophie Carlini in her bathtub with a hole in her head. Robin called 911. Batman examined the bathroom, and found nothing helpful.

"Cops are on their way," Robin said as Batman walked from the bathroom to the open window.

Batman climbed out onto the fire escape.

"Where to now?" Robin asked, following him.

Batman pulled his grapnel from his belt and fired a line at the iron railing of a balcony across the street and several floors above him. He clipped the other end back onto his belt, grasped the line with both hands, and stepped up onto the railing of the fire escape.

"Luka's place," he said just before he pushed off and swung out over the street.

. . .

Dina heard two sharp knocks, a muffled shout of "_Police!_" and the sound of her front door being smashed in.

She pulled on a pair of sweatpants and opened her bedroom door. Her mother was in the hallway, tying her bathrobe, looking out into the living room, where uniformed police were marching in one after the other through the open door. Detective Driver came toward them. "For God's sake, do you know what time it is?" Maggie asked.

Driver handed her a piece of paper. "Mrs. Lethem, Mrs. Spinelli," he said, looking from Maggie to Dina, "I have a warrant to search this apartment in pursuance of a homicide investigation. If there's anything relevant you'd like to show me now, I can save you a hell of a mess you'll have to clean up later."

Dina's mother looked over at her.

"I don't have anything he's looking for, Mother," Dina said to Maggie. Smiling indignantly, she turned then to Driver. "Sorry, Detective."

Driver returned to the living room. He met two officers and directed them back the hallway to search Maggie and Dina's bedrooms. Crowded out of every other space in the apartment, Dina and her mother retreated to the bathroom and sat down beside each other on the edge of the tub.

They listened for almost thirty minutes while their quarters were ransacked. There was a knock on the bathroom door, and Driver opened it a few inches and leaned his head inside. "Ladies?"

Dina and Maggie got to their feet. "Detective," Dina said.

Driver opened the door the rest of the way. "Does this belong to either of you?" In his rubber-gloved hand he held a semi-automatic pistol.

"And _where_ did you find _that?_" Maggie asked, glaring at Driver, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

"In a shoebox on the top shelf of my closet," Dina said. She dropped her head, rubbed her eyes. "It's mine."

"Is there anything you want to tell me now?" Driver asked.

Dina looked at Driver. She shook her head. "No."

Driver nodded. "Have it your way." He turned and walked back up the hallway. "Everybody? Let's get lost. We're finished here," Dina heard him tell the other cops. In a few seconds everyone was out the door and down the stairs. Dina and Maggie left the bathroom and began to sort through the ruins.

. . .

Luka Spinelli was walking south on the jogging path at Robinson Park, his hands hung limply in the pockets of his suede jacket. When the path forked, he took the trail to the right, into the woods that occupied most of the park's interior. It was too dark to even see the trees, beyond the glow of the lampposts planted along the path every twenty feet or so.

Another man approached from the opposite direction. Luka recognized him. This time of night, who else would it have been?

They stopped where they met. "Nice night for a walk," Scott Lee said, looking up at the cloudy, moonless sky.

"I know, how romantic." Luka took his right hand from his pocket and motioned for Scott to hand it over.

Scott produced an envelope from inside his jacket. "Why couldn't we just do this at the store? Or my place?"

Luka reached out for the envelope. "When you see it, you'll get it."

Scott snatched the envelope away before Luka could take it. "Then let's see it," he said.

Luka glared at Scott, unzipped his jacket. From his inside pocket he pulled an envelope and exchanged it for the one Scott was holding.

Scott opened Luka's envelope and removed its contents. A giddy grin appeared on his wide, whiskered face. "Ohhhhh-ho, man . . ." he said. In his hand was the 1958 Topps rookie card of Pat Lincoln, in perfect mint condition, like it had just been unwrapped. Scott flipped the card over and read the stats. "Forty-six home runs in '57 . . . unbelievable."

"And that wasn't even a full season," said Luka, opening the envelope he'd taken from Scott. "He didn't get called up to Gotham from Wilkes-Barre until almost _May_." Luka pulled a card from the envelope. He stared at it, saying nothing. He looked in the envelope, thinking there must have been something else, but it was empty. "What the fuck is this?" he said, holding up the card.

"Johnny Bench rookie," Scott said, glancing at the card, then at Luka, then back to the Pat Lincoln rookie in his hands. "That was the deal."

Luka lowered the card. "_And_ the '68 Mantle," he said. "Where the fuck is the '68 fucking Mantle?"

"I thought you just said you liked that one," Scott said, sliding his Lincoln back into the envelope and tucking it into his inside pocket. "You never said that was part of the deal!"

"You really think I'd trade you a fucking mint condition Pat Lincoln for a Johnny Bench rookie card?" Luka stared at Scott, scornful, disbelieving. "Use your head."

Scott pushed his hair out of his eyes. "Okay. Um. Stop by the store tomorrow and I'll let you have the Mantle, too, then."

"And where does my Pat Lincoln go until then?"

"I'll just hold onto it. I might as well. I'll give you the Mantle card first thing when I open tomorrow."

"Fuck you, give it back."

"Give it back for what?"

"Give it back and I keep it as a deposit until you put that '68 Mantle in my hand."

Scott reached into his jacket for the Lincoln. He paused with his hand on the envelope, reluctant to take it out of the pocket. "You're not kidding?" he asked.

"Think a second who you're talking to," Luka said, "and decide if I'm fucking kidding."

Scott handed over the card.

"See you tomorrow," Luka said as he turned and started out of the woods the way he'd come in.

A hand reached out of the darkness and snatched hold of Luka's collar as he passed one of the lampposts. It yanked him backwards, banging his head, cuffing his hands behind him around the post. Luka tried to look behind him. The hand held him firmly by the chin and forced him to look straight ahead.

"You're a dangerous person to know, Luka."

The Batman. Fuck.

"And what's your point?" Luka asked, trying not to sound rattled.

"How did two of your girlfriends end up in the morgue?"

"It wasn't me! What the fuck else do I know about it?"

"Who was it?"

"I don't know! Don't you think I'd be lookin' to settle up with whoever it was, if I did?"

"Not if it was someone doing you a favor."

Luka smirked. "If he's planning on taking out every woman who ever wound up a notch on my bedpost, I hope he's eating his Wheaties in the morn—"

The hand reached around Luka's throat, pulled him back against the post, choking him. "What do you expect me to say?" Luka hissed.

"Point me in the right direction."

"Talk to my cunt ex-wife!"

The hand released its grip. Luka gasped for air. He waited for the voice to say something else, but there was nothing. He looked behind him on either side. He rotated to the other side of the post. No one. Nothing but the black woods.

Luka made a pointless effort to strain at his cuffs. "Hey!" he screamed. "Hey! Let me go! You can't leave me here all goddamn night!"

. . .

Sarge propped a leg on the edge of the desk and asked what was so funny. Driver flipped the folder shut and tossed it onto the desk in front of him. "Patrol in Robinson Park picked up Luka Spinelli this morning handcuffed to a light pole."

"You're shitting me." Sarge picked up the folder.

"Yep," Driver said, leaning back in his chair. "They searched him and found a Pat Lincoln baseball card. Remember Ozzie Chellensky?"

Sarge nodded. "The Bressi enforcer who disappeared after he turned state's evidence."

"Chellensky's place was broken into the night he disappeared," Driver said. "His wife told the cops the only thing missing, other than Ozzie, was his Pat Lincoln rookie card."

Sarge read over the arrest report and chuckled. "No shit." He handed the folder to Driver and walked over to his own desk. He pulled his jacket off the back of his chair and started toward the door. "See you tomorrow night, Driver."

"Later, Sarge. Have a good one."

Driver's phone rang. "Marcus Driver."

"Driver, it's Norm Nolan in ballistics. Glad I caught you before you left for the evening."

"Nolan. What's up?"

"Just finished with Dina Spinelli's gun. Doesn't look like your murder weapon."

Driver shifted the phone to his other ear and leaned forward on his desk. "You're kidding me."

"'Fraid not. This piece is a TZ-75—it can take a .40 S&W round, like the ones that killed the Hanshaw and Carlini girls, but it's chambered right now for a .45."

"You're positive that's not the murder weapon?"

"Oh, sure. I also had a look at the shell casing recovered from the Hanshaw scene. I'd say you're looking for another .40 S&W, probably a Glock 22. Definitely not this Tanfoglio you sent me."

Driver pushed his fingers through his hair and sighed. "Well. All right. Thanks, Nolan." He hung up the phone, grabbed his jacket, and stood up.

He stopped in the men's room on his way to the elevator. He pissed, flushed, and went to the sink to wash his hands. Driver turned on the faucet and reached under the soap dispenser. As he pressed his palms together, the lights went out.

"What the hell?"

He continued to wash his hands under the pale red glow of the emergency lights. His eyes began to adjust to the dark, and he became aware of a large shape to his left.

Driver looked, and leapt back from the sink. Batman was perched like a gargoyle on the countertop.

"For fuck's sake! What is wrong with you?" Driver said, shaking the water off his hands.

"You're looking in the wrong place."

Driver groped for the paper towel dispenser. "The wrong place for what?"

"Luka Spinelli didn't kill those women, and neither did his ex-wife."

"Is that right?" Driver dried his hands, balled up the paper towel and tossed it where he thought the trashcan was. "Okay. Say they're the wrong places. What's the right place?"

"I don't know."

"Oooh," groaned Driver, wincing at Batman. He took a step toward the exit. "Thanks for stopping by." Driver reached for the door.

Batman's arm burst out from behind his cloak and flung a small dart that wedged itself beneath the bottom of the door.

Driver yanked the handle. The door didn't budge.

"You have Luka Spinelli in custody."

Driver drew his pistol from behind his back. "I don't know who you think you are, but if I can't open this door in ten seconds, consider yourself under arrest!" He took aim at Batman's head, cocking the hammer back with his thumb.

"Put the gun down, Detec—"

"_One!_"

Batman reached out and took the pistol. Driver watched it disappear into the black cloak.

"You have Luka Spinelli in custody," Batman said again.

"Yes." Driver crossed his arms. "Not for long. His lawyer'll have him out in a few hours."

"You were going to put a tail on him."

"I'd planned on getting someone to keep an eye on him, yeah," said Driver. "He's a murder suspect."

"I want you to leave him alone for the next few days."

"Leave him alone? Absolutely not. Out of the question. For one thing, he's a flight risk. If he did kill those girls, and he skips town . . ."

"I'll ensure that doesn't happen."

Driver laughed. "Gee, thanks a shitload, caped crusader! Nice to have you on the team!" He shook his head. "And when Cornwell asks me what I'm doing toward closing the Hanshaw and Carlini homicides, I'm supposed to tell him what, exactly?"

"Not my problem."

The lights flashed back on. Driver flinched. He blinked a few times as his eyes got used to the light. He looked back at the sink. On the countertop where Batman had been was Driver's pistol.

He collected his sidearm and pulled on the door handle. Batman's dart was gone. The door opened, and Driver walked through it.

. . .

It was a few days later, shortly before one in the morning, when a black Escalade parked along the curb in front of Scott Lee's store. One man exited the vehicle and walked inside.

The store had been closed for several hours. Scott Lee had opened the door when Luka Spinelli arrived earlier in the evening and neglected to lock it again. Lee and Spinelli were conducting business in the office behind the front counter when the man entered the store.

On hearing the front door open, Lee rose from his chair to investigate. Spinelli, smart enough to be suspicious, yanked Lee back down, and drew his pistol from inside his jacket. Spinelli ordered Lee not to move, and slid across the room to stand with his back to the wall next to the doorway.

The intruder stepped into the office and lifted the silver semi-automatic he carried in his right hand. Spinelli reached out with his pistol and pressed the muzzle against the gunman's forehead. Another moment and Luka would have pulled the trigger, but Batman's arm appeared from behind and jerked the pistol up and away from the intruder. That same instant, a filament lassoed the gunman's arm and pulled him backwards through the doorway.

Batman unloaded Luka's pistol and tossed it onto the floor. On the other side of the door, Robin took the gunman's semi-automatic, and cuffed his hands around the leg of a display case filled with vintage New York Yankees memorabilia. "Oh, wow," Robin said to himself, catching a glimpse of what was in the case, "a '68 Mantle . . ."

Batman cuffed Luka's hands and sat him down in his chair next to Scott Lee.

"Who was that guy who tried to kill me?" shouted Luka. "What the fuck are you doing here? What's going on?!"

Batman put his foot on Luka's chest and tipped the chair backwards onto the floor.

Luka let out a wounded howl. "Fuck, you broke my arms!"

"Quiet."

Batman joined Robin by the display case. "Who sent you here?" he asked the cuffed intruder.

"You can talk to my lawyer, same as the cops." The intruder grunted and looked away.

Batman delivered a sharp kick to the ribs that left the intruder gasping for his breath. Batman squatted in front of him, grabbed a fistful of hair and jerked his head around. "Tell me who sent you."

"Scarfone," he growled. Batman let go of him and stood up.

"Is that Tony Scarfone who worked for Tony Bressi?" Luka yelled from the office. "Hey, tell Scarfone he oughta be buyin' dinner for whoever popped Chellensky! That was the biggest favor anybody ever did for Bressi, that small-time guinea piece of sh—"

Batman flung a dart into the office. It stuck in the floor a quarter of an inch to the right of Luka's head.

Batman swept through the doorway. He passed by Spinelli and grabbed Scott Lee by the collar and lifted him to his feet. He dragged Lee back into the front of the store and shoved him down next to the cuffed intruder. "Why did Scarfone want you to kill _this_ man?" he asked, his hand gripping Lee by the shoulder.

The intruder shook his head. "I wasn't here for him. I was here for Spinelli."

"You were about to shoot _him_," said Batman, shoving Lee to within an inch of the intruder's face. "Before he put his gun to your head, you didn't even know Spinelli was here." Batman tossed Scott Lee aside and squatted on the floor on front of the intruder once again. "Who sent you really?" he asked.

The intruder said nothing.

Batman grabbed him by the hair again and threw the back of his head against the display case, shattering the glass.

"Hey!" Scott Lee yelled.

"Go back and sit down," Robin told him.

The intruder grimaced, strained against Batman's grip. "Jesus, am I bleeding?"

Batman yanked back on the fistful of hair. "Answer me."

"I don't know who it is! I get instructions in the mail!"

"What kind of instructions?"

"A location and a description of a target. No names. Then I get payment in the mail, in cash, usually the day after the job."

"Any return address?"

"They're always different. Probably phony anyway."

"How many of the women killed this week were yours?"

"All of them."

"Was this your only stop tonight?"

The intruder hesitated. Batman shoved him backwards into the broken glass.

"_Ahh!_ No! There was one before here."

"Where?"

"Two-forty-six Seibert. Apartment Twelve."

Batman let him go and stood up.

"What number did he say?" Scott Lee asked, getting out of his chair.

"Sit down," Batman told him.

"No!" Lee shouted. "What fucking number did he say? Two-forty-six Seibert, Number Twelve? That's my sister's place!"

Still cuffed to the chair, flat on his back, Luka Spinelli threw his head back and closed his eyes. "Oh fuck . . ." he sighed.

. . .

The "Please Seat Yourself" sign was out. Driver found a booth in a quiet corner and took off his coat. A waitress set a cup and saucer in front of him and poured him some coffee. "I'm just taking a wild guess here," she said.

Driver grinned. "You read my mind." He took a sip. He smacked his lips as he set the cup back down. "Did you make this?"

She shrugged. "I loaded the machine."

He lifted his eyebrows. "You did it right." He took another sip.

"Why, thank you." She took out her pad and scribbled something down. "You gonna have anything to eat?"

Driver propped his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together. "Your sign in the window said 'pecan pie' . . ."

"I might have one piece left."

Driver smiled up at her. "You think I could have it?"

The waitress nodded. "Give me just a minute." She took her carafe of coffee and left for the kitchen.

Driver sipped his coffee. He caught sight of Dina Spinelli on the other side of the diner, bussing a booth. He waved and called "Dina!" to get her attention as she walked toward the kitchen with a tray of used dishes in her arms. She glanced at him, and pushed through the swinging doors.

She returned a few seconds later without the tray, walked up to Driver's booth and glared down at him, arms crossed. "What?" she asked him bluntly.

Driver folded his arms on the table. "They let you have a break here?"

Dina put her hands on her hips. "I can take my lunch, I guess. But why would I?"

"I just wanted to talk to you about some things."

Dina sighed. "Will it take long?"

Driver shook his head. "No, but . . . I mean, I'd like to have a conversation . . ."

She looked aside and scratched behind her ear. "All right. Let me to tell my boss and I'll be back out."

"Thanks."

As Dina shoved back through the kitchen doors, Driver saw his waitress coming with his pie. She set the plate and a fork in front of him. "Need anything else?"

Driver picked up his fork and dug off a chunk of pie. "This should do it," he said, and popped the fork into his mouth.

Dina returned and sat down across from Driver in the booth. "Judy, I'm taking lunch. Can you get me a cup of coffee and a tuna salad sandwich?" she said to the waitress.

"Sure, I'll be right back," said Judy, and she was gone.

Dina sat back in the booth and drummed her fingers on the table. "So?"

"We got him." Driver washed down his bite of pie with a slurp of coffee. "The guy who killed Luka's . . . friends."

"Who was it?"

Driver got another forkful of pie. "Just some mercenary, like we've got too many of around here . . ." He slipped the fork into his mouth. "Gun-for-hire," he said, chewing.

"Why did he do it?" Judy appeared with Dina's coffee. "Thanks."

"Be back in a few with your sandwich," Judy said.

Dina tore open a few sugar packets and poured them into her coffee.

"He says he was hired to," Driver said. "We're still working on that." He took a sip of his coffee. "But he's definitely the guy. He confessed, his gun was the murder weapon . . . It was definitely him."

"How did you find him?"

"We received an anonymous tip that he had attempted to murder a guy named Scott Lee, a sports memorabilia dealer with a shop in Eastlyn."

Dina rolled her eyes as she stirred her coffee. "I know that guy."

"We found our man at Lee's shop, cuffed to the leg of a display case." Driver chewed and swallowed another bite. "Luka was there, too. We found him tied to a chair with a separated shoulder and two sprained wrists."

Dina laughed. "Good for him." She sipped her coffee and winced. "Good lord, this tastes like it's two days old." She reached for a cup of cream. "Did you arrest him? Luka?"

"No, not last night." Driver sipped his coffee. "But I spoke to our A.D.A. this afternoon, and he's going to bring charges against Luka for the murder of a mob enforcer who disappeared a few years ago. I'm not sure if it'll stick, but it's worth a shot, anyway."

"A few years ago?" Dina asked, stirring her coffee again. "Why prosecute him now?"

"New evidence."

Dina put her spoon down and gave the coffee another try. "I'll have to choke it down, I guess."

"We also found Scott Lee's sister," said Driver. "She was our man's last stop before going to Lee's shop."

"She's dead?"

Driver nodded.

"Jesus." Dina sipped her coffee. "Wait, does that mean Luka slept with _her_, too?"

Driver shrugged. "Presumably. That was the only thing tying the victims together."

"And then the guy went to Scott Lee's store to kill him. For what?"

"He said it was him who introduced Luka to his sister," Driver said. "That and being a close friend of Luka's probably are what got his name on the list."

Dina traced her finger around the rim of the coffee mug. "She used to watch the boys."

Driver turned his head and lightly cleared his throat. "About the boys . . ."

Dina looked up at him. "What?"

"You might want to call your lawyer, file a new petition for custody." Driver broke off another bite of pie. "With Luka up on a murder charge, it'll be hard even for someone as crooked as Judge Bartell to rule against you."

Dina nodded. "Thank you."

Driver took his bite. "You're welcome," he said through his teeth.

Judy brought Dina's tuna sandwich. Driver finished his pie and asked for more coffee. For a few minutes they sat there, Driver sipping from his mug, Dina eating her sandwich, neither of them saying a word.

"There was also . . . I wanted to say I'm sorry," said Driver to break the silence.

"Sorry for ransacking my mother's house?"

Driver grinned, looked down bashfully at his lap. "Well, yes, I am sorry about that." He looked up. "That gun we found that night—I know you don't have a permit for it, but it didn't come up stolen, so if you want . . ."

Dina shook her head. "No, that's okay. It was one of Luka's, anyway." She observed the sudden tension on Driver's face. "He never used it," she said. "I don't know why I even took it with me . . ."

"Feels safer with one in the house," Driver said. Dina just shrugged. Driver looked out the window. "Also, I just wanted to . . ." He rubbed his forehead with the top of his fist. "I'm sorry any of this happened at all. With you and Luka."

"Oh." Dina lifted her mug. "Well, I'll drink a cup of rancid coffee to that."

Driver picked up his mug and clinked it with Dina's. "Here here." He took a drink and sat back in the booth. "I was at your wedding, you know."

Dina cocked an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

"In a way. My precinct captain had a few of us sit on the church, in case anything . . . I don't know what he thought was gonna happen, or better yet, what we were gonna do about it if it did." Driver laughed. "I only got to see entrances and exits, but it looked like the mobbed-up version of Prince Charles and Princess Di, Maroni made such a big deal out of it . . ."

Dina grinned, embarrassed, and shook her head. "I remember. God, how humiliating . . ."

"I figured you were too good for Luka even back then," Driver said. He waited for her to look at him. "Now I'm positive you were."

Dina smiled. "That's sweet of you to say."

. . .

While Dina Spinelli sat across from Marcus Driver in the diner, Robin rifled through the panties in her top dresser drawer. He reached the bottom and, finding nothing significant, quietly shut the drawer and moved down to the next one.

"There is a connection between Dina Spinelli and whoever ordered these women murdered," Batman had said in the car. "A friend of hers, someone angry about the end of her marriage, someone who wanted to exact vengeance in Dina's name on the women who came between her and Luka."

"How do we find out who that is?" Robin had asked.

On the opposite end of the room, Batman unpacked one of the cardboard boxes that had been stacked to the side of the closet. He found envelopes, stacks of old photos, souvenirs from vacations, and placed them all out of the way on the bed. Near the bottom he found a packet crudely labeled "WEDDING" across its front.

Both of them froze as they heard Maggie Lethem walk down the hall and enter the bathroom. They stood still for several minutes, only resuming their search after they heard the toilet flush and Maggie's footsteps back into the living room.

Batman opened the packet and removed a stack of papers. Unused wedding stationary. Unmailed invitations. A stack of RSVP cards bound together by a rubber band. There were three pages from a yellow legal pad, handwritten over both sides with the names of people to invite. Batman read the name on the top line of the first page. He put the pages down on the bed and shuffled through the RSVP cards.

He slipped one into his belt and returned everything else to the packet, and repacked the box exactly as he found it.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Robin asked in the car several minutes later.

"We'll see."

Batman turned right at the next intersection, and followed the river east toward Mercey Island.

. . .

Only the scarred half of Harvey Dent was visible in the dim light filtering through from the corridor. He sat on his bunk with his back against the wall, one hand resting on his raised right knee, the other stroking the face of his coin with his thumb.

Harvey looked up when he heard the action of the latch, but didn't move. He had a good guess who was on the other side. The door opened and closed. In the darkness, in the split second the door was open, Harvey glimpsed a shape slipping into the cell. He pulled up his outstretched leg. "Take a seat."

The springs beneath the mattress squeaked as Batman sat down at the foot of the bunk.

"What do you need?" Harvey asked, looking down at his coin, which he could hardly see in his hand.

"You contracted the murders of Luka Spinelli's mistresses."

Harvey raised his eyebrow. "That's a stretch."

Something hit Harvey in the chest. He picked it up with his damaged left hand. A card. He took it in his right hand and felt raised printing with his thumb. He sat forward, turned and held the card up to the light. _R.S.V.P._ read the top line of print. Near the bottom were two handwritten lines:

_Dina—We can't make it. I'm sorry._

_Love you. —Gilda_

Harvey turned back around and sat on the edge of the bunk. He brought the card down to his lap and held it in both hands. "Where did you get this?"

"From a cardboard box." Batman reached out and took back the card. "Dina Spinelli and Gilda were friends."

Harvey turned his coin end over end in his left hand. "Dina was like a little sister to her," he said. "It broke her heart she couldn't see her get married. But I was running for district attorney. I told her if we went to the wedding of a hitman for Sal Maroni . . ." He chuckled bitterly. "I probably would have been better off."

Harvey closed his fist around his coin.

"You paid to have those women killed," Batman said.

"Dina was a nice girl. She and Gilda were friends since they were children. She deserved better than a thug like Luka Spinelli."

"What did those murdered women deserve?"

Harvey flipped the coin into the air and felt it land in his open palm. "I didn't kill them. Luka did. Every time he broke his vow to his wife. When he tried to ruin her in their divorce. When he took away her children. He brought this down on himself. And his women. Now it's something he has to live with."

Batman stood and moved toward the door.

"Will you see him?" Harvey asked.

"No."

"You should go see him," Harvey said. "Tell him it was him that did this, when he chose them over his wife." He flipped the coin and caught it. "Gilda wanted so much that I kept her from having . . . but I was true to her. I never fucked around, not once. I can say that."

Harvey flipped his coin again. He could barely discern Batman standing in front of the door.

"Which side came up when you made this decision?" Batman asked.

Harvey snorted. He rolled the coin between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. "Which do you think?"

The door opened and closed, and Batman was gone.


End file.
